Old Age Private Eye: Old Age Pensioner Investigations Cozy Mysteries, #1

By A. W. Blakely

Six months into retirement from the local council, and Stanley was about as bored as he thought he could possibly be. Then he mowed the lawn (again) and knew his life was over. His wife was happy doing her crosswords, but Stanley felt like an old age pensioner with nothing to look forward to apart from sitting in his chair, watching daytime TV, and walking his dog, Roobarb.

On a whim, after yet another wet walk with his overweight pooch, he put an advert in the corner shop window: Old Age Pensioner Investigations. No job too big, or small. From murder to missing cats, Detective Stanley can solve it all.

He went home, got told off for letting Roobarb get mud on the lino, stared at Custard the cat who stole the only biscuit he was allowed a day (he was putting on weight), and fell asleep in his chair.

Then the doorbell rang. He had a case. The old age private eye was in business. Now all he had to do was actually solve a murder. Oh, and get a pad, and a pen, and maybe detectives had cars too, and secretaries, and offices...

He wasn't bored any more, that was the main thing. Plus the murder mystery, of course.

• Language: English
• Publisher: A. W. Blakely
• Release date: Jul 28, 2021
• ISBN: 9781519997012

A. W. Blakely

A. W. Blakely is a man of “certain” years who is finally pursuing his passion of writing fun and exciting cozy mysteries set in the heart of England. The Old Age Pensioner Investigations series are the first cozy mystery books he has published although he has been a writer for most of his adult life.

Book preview

Naughty Cat

Stanley hated Custard. He stared at the smug, fat cat as she sat and licked her paws, getting chocolate all over the ancient recliner; his recliner. That chocolate should be in his mouth too — the topping of his biscuit — but the bloody evil genius had nicked it and Babs, his wife, wouldn't believe him if he went into their tiny kitchen and said he wanted another one because Custard the cat had stolen his.

He was allowed one biscuit a day now. Babs had told him he'd got tubby since his retirement six months ago, so had put him on strict rations — it was driving him crazy. No more fry-ups in the morning, no more having three sugars in his tea, strong and with the teabag left in just how he liked it. Now it was weird, fake sugar that tasted like a mouthful of drain cleaner, and he had to eat muesli for breakfast, which as far as Stanley was concerned was like eating sawdust with a couple of raisins thrown in so they could charge you a fortune for the privilege of eating what Stanley would sweep up from his shed floor.

Custard the cat finished her ablutions, dropped from the recliner onto the carpet and padded off into the kitchen, where Babs cooed over the cheeky sod and probably gave her another biscuit.

Stupid cat, eating my bloody biscuit, muttered Stanley, as he claimed back his chair and sank into it gratefully. He picked up the newspaper from the table on his right hand side and flipped through it before putting it back down. Too depressing. Why don't they ever write about something nice instead of all this politics and death?

What's that, love? asked Babs, before she popped her head around the door.

Eh? Oh, nothing, just talking to myself.

You've been doing that a lot lately, admonished Babs. Why don't you go for a nice walk? Or do a little gardening?

Yeah, okay. Babs smiled and went back to whatever she was doing in the kitchen. In the six months since Stanley retired from the council he was amazed at what a day in the life of his wife was like. She seemed to spend half her time in the kitchen, and much as he'd tried he couldn't figure out what she did in there — whenever he went in she would shoo him out, saying it was her domain and if he wanted anything he was to ask.

Babs was old-fashioned like that, and he kind of resented it. Why couldn't he have his own room in the house too, instead of being banished to the shed if he wanted to be alone? The shed was cold and had spiders, the kitchen was warm and had tea and biscuits.

Stanley sighed and tried to ignore the rumbling of his belly. Bloody cat. Now I'll have to wait until dinner. I'm starving. He glanced down at his spreading waistline and frowned. Maybe he was putting on a little weight, but it wasn't his fault. It was retirement, he couldn't help that, could he? It wasn't fair, he was a mere sixty-seven, but the council had cutbacks and he was offered a nice little redundancy package so took it — if he hadn't then they would have laid him off soon enough anyway. The buggers were getting kids to work for free, calling it work experience, when all it really meant was slave labor. Or everyone was on part-time, the wages so low Stanley was sure they were running the county into the ground on purpose.

Glancing out the window, Stanley contemplated going for another walk, but he'd already been for one today with Roobarb the dog and although the black Labrador was as much in need of extra exercise as Stanley, the gray sky and the light drizzle didn't exactly inspire him to go for a stroll. He'd also mowed the lawn, not that it had even needed it, so he certainly wouldn't do it again, and how could he in the rain anyway?

Staring at the depressing summer's day through the living room window, Stanley slurped on his tea then frowned at the dark liquid. Tastes rubbish with this fake sugar, who drinks this stuff? Guess I do now. Ugh, retirement is depressing. No fry-ups for breakfast, no bloody sugar, and the cat nicks my biscuit. Stanley was bored. Bored, bored, bored. When he'd first retired he thought it would be great: hanging out at home, spending time with Babs, catching up on all those projects he never had the time for, getting up when he wanted in the morning, going to the pub for an afternoon pint, lazing about and reading the paper. The reality was something entirely different.

He found that he hated woodwork with a vengeance, so the projects would remain forever works in progress, Babs was used to doing her own thing and he was just in the way, the news was depressing, the pub was even more depressing, full of other men in retirement who just stared morosely over pints they took hours to finish. A trip to the pub was more soul-sapping than the news and not worth the sacrifice of money and time just to have a drink. To top it all off, Stanley was so used to getting up at six in the morning that he couldn't sleep a wink after that, even though the alarm clock hadn't been set for six months.

Retirement was boring and Stanley wanted something to do. He felt like a spare wheel, like he didn't have a purpose in life now he didn't have a routine and a regular job, like he was on the scrap heap, discarded and of no use to anybody now he was classed as a pensioner. An old age pensioner that was supposed to just sit in his recliner, read the paper, slowly get fat and wait for death.

Roobarb trotted into the living room on his short, stubby legs and grunted before scratching at the rug next to the gas fire that wasn't on. He then lay down after he'd made sure to mess it up. He was snoring in seconds. Lucky bugger. You've been retired since the day you were born and you never get bored, do you? Roobarb didn't answer.

The rain beat down harder and banged at the window like the Grim Reaper warning Stanley that it wouldn't be long until it was all over. The room grew dark as clouds gathered; the wind made the windows knock against their frames.

They should have just put me straight in my coffin the day I finished work. Stanley stared at the dog, stared at the paper, stared at the window and then stared at his belly where the buttons on his blue shirt, the same shirt he'd had for nine years, strained and threatened to pop off. With a sigh, and a push against the arms of his chair, Stanley huffed and got to his feet. Come on, Roobarb, I think we better go for another walk. It's that or find my razor and slit my throat.

At the mention of a walk, Roobarb was up and wagging his tail in a heartbeat, heading into the kitchen. Stanley followed behind.

Babs sat at their tiny table, blue Formica and so old it was back in fashion. Kate, their daughter, had called it retro, although as far as Stanley was concerned it was just old. Old like him, like everything in his home, his life. Babs was deep in concentration, chewing on her pen as she thought about her crossword, unaware he was in the room.

I'm taking Roobarb for a walk, he said, hoping to grab a biscuit as the pack was on the counter top.

Okay, love, see you later. Babs continued to stare at her puzzle.

Stanley didn't see the point, but if it made her happy then who was he to judge? At least she didn't mind being stuck at home and she didn't have to be on strict food rations like him — she hadn't gained an ounce of weight in the forty-eight years they'd been married.

See you. Come on, Roobarb. Stanley scowled at the cat, asleep at Babs's feet, and edged over to the counter, licking his lips.

No biscuits, warned Babs, not taking her eyes off her crossword.

Fine, sighed Stanley, and opened the door to the small laundry room where the coats, shoes and dog lead were all kept. Roobarb woofed and spun in circles while Stanley put on his waterproof coat and Wellington boots. He grabbed his flat cap, checked to make sure he had his pipe, another thing he wasn't allowed to do in the house, which was completely unfair, and grabbed Roobarb's lead.

They stepped out into another depressing English summer's day.

Knowing Stanley's luck at the moment, his tobacco would get soggy or he'd drop and break his pipe.

Stupid bloody rain.

It's Easy

Hi, we're home, said Stanley, as he stepped into the kitchen and bent to give Babs a kiss on the cheek.

Babs glanced up from her crossword in shock and said, Ooh, you seem happier. See, I told you a bit of fresh air would do you good.

Yeah, you're right, always are, said Stanley with a smile.

Babs looked at him quizzically, that look she always had when she knew he'd been up to something. How she knew was a mystery, but she always did. What you been up to? I bet you've been buying chocolate from the shop, haven't you? Her face turned to horror. You better not have started gambling!

What!? Me? No, I promise. No gambling, no chocolate. I did go to the shop, but all I bought was a can of stout for tonight. Just the one, added Stanley quickly.

Hmm. Babs' attention drifted down. Look at my floor!

Stanley did as he was told and noticed the muddy paw prints of Roobarb all over the checkered linoleum. Oh. Oops, sorry.

Now I'll have to mop again. I told you to dry Roobarb after you go for a walk. Babs got to her feet, ready as always for some housework.

Stanley wondered why she always wore what she called her housecoat, a blue smock type thing that was supposedly there to keep her proper clothes clean — he couldn't see the point, but it was how she was, what she liked. He also never understood why she always had rollers in her hair or wore her pink slippers even if it was warm. It was just who Babs was. When had she become old? When had he? He didn't feel old, at least not always, and he still often believed he would see a thirty-year-old man if he looked in the mirror, rather than the old guy in his late sixties that confronted him every morning when he shaved. He seemed to age by the day since he'd retired, or maybe it was just that he had more time to look at himself and wonder what the hell had happened.

Stanley!

Eh? Stanley came out of his daydreaming as Babs shook him and shooed him out of the kitchen, muttering about her floor. She pushed Roobarb's ample behind into the laundry room to dry him off.

Go on, shoo. Now I'll never finish my crossword.

It's private eye, said Stanley with a glint in his eye.

What is? What are you talking about?

The answer to your puzzle. It's private eye.

Babs stopped pushing Roobarb across the lino, claws digging deep as he hated having his paws dried, and moved back to the open puzzle book on the table. She read the clue. 'You'll want a gumshoe for this mystery to be solved.' You're right, private eye, it fits. Babs filled in her final answer and lifted her head. Why is it private eye and not private investigator?

Um, dunno. Maybe because they always use a logo with a man looking through a magnifying glass? You know, searching for clues. Stanley had no idea if that was true or not, but it sounded right. Or maybe it was just that investigator had become shortened to Private I, or P.I. Anyway, I was right, wasn't I?

Hmm, my floor is still dirty though. Shoo, go on, out of my kitchen.

Sorry, love. Stanley went into the living room and slumped into his chair again. He frowned as he slurped cold tea and stared out of the window at the rain. Bloody hell, it's only Tuesday. Not that it made any difference, every day was the same now. The only marker of time was that on Saturdays the postman was an hour later, apart from that the days were identical, and long. Very, very long. Stanley never even got any mail, apart from junk. Comes to something when I look forward to the postie coming and all I get is nonsense about cheap food from the local supermarket. He looked out the window and wondered if he should mow the lawn if it stopped raining, not that it needed it,